Morning Calls Remembered

(Originally published 4/19/16)

A loud shout on the streets of the Bronx in the early morning hours is the wind beneath the wings of this blog. Awoken from a sound sleep, my brain—sans any couching on my part—retrieved two words lodged in its vast memory bank: morning call. I don't exactly know why, but in my groggy state, I recalled my maternal grandmother’s daily newspaper, The Morning Call—the one she found on her front porch every morning on Miller Street and then on South Second Street in Bangor, Pennsylvania. As a youth, I always thought that was such a great name for a newspaper, and I’m happy to report this Allentown-based daily is still in business. But my brain wasn’t done yet. It returned to the Bronx and dredged up one more morning call—my own.

Some forty years ago, it was not unusual to find me in a neighboring alleyway at around seven o’clock in the morning and calling on my best friend “Johnny Boy.” Considering all the advances in technology and the colossal cultural shift, it seems kind of strange to envision a youngster arising so bright and early, before anybody else in the household, and venturing out onto the mean streets of the Bronx without first alerting Ma and Pa. After all, local crime statistics were even more cause for concern back then, and the nine- and ten-year-old me didn’t even have a cell phone to communicate with the home office.

But it’s just the way it was. Roaring at the top of my lungs, “Johnny Boy!” when most everybody in earshot was asleep on a weekend, or on an early summer’s morning, was commonplace. My friend would often respond to my bellow with the logical rejoinder, “What?” I would then say, “You coming out?” Occasionally, one of his sisters would answer for him and shout, “He’s sleeping!” Looking back these many years later, I can understand why some others might not have appreciated this morning call—not too long after the sunrise—of “Johnny Boy!” It was, however, a different and, I daresay, simpler time—completely uninhibited and not remotely technologically driven. It was also more annoying to those who didn’t get up with the roosters.

While I rue all that has been lost to the youth of today transfixed with their latest electronic gadgets and, above all else, impatience with everything and anything that doesn’t move at the speed of light, I take great solace in the contemporary quietude. There are no little people anymore waking up at daybreak, going out to play, and disturbing formerly young persons like myself. Nowadays, when the legions of youth arise from their slumbers, they reach, foremost, for their iPads and iPhones. Venturing out into the great outdoors—the urban jungle—and calling on their best buds is unheard of. When a text message or tweet will suffice, why wake up the wider world anyway? And now, too, I can read the The Morning Call online.

Memories of Class Warfare

(Originally published 9/30/11)

While toiling in a retail pet food and supplies business approximately two decades ago, I found myself the acting cashier—and just everything else—one afternoon, which was par for the course. Since the business in question was a friend and family member partnership, the daily operations were typically informal. Often, whoever was on duty wore many hats, played many roles, and nothing was beneath him or her, including the scrubbing of anxious canines’ diarrhea off the floor, which occurred from time to time in our pet-friendly store.

On this lazy summer afternoon, a woman came to counter with a basketful of cat food cans. She told me how many she had in there, and then went off to gather a few more things. I began bagging her cans and—as was my routine—counted them. I always placed a certain number in each bag—and no more—that was my bag, if you will. She evidently told me she had three cases worth, or some such thing. I counted a couple of cans fewer than her tally. I didn’t tell her and, admittedly, I was remiss in not informing her that her count was off. Still, when all was said and done, I charged her the correct amount, which would have been more had I accepted her erroneous calculation as the gospel truth.

Anyway, several days later, the store received a letter from this woman. She was peeved. Her home address was somewhere on Manhattan’s Central Park West. Apparently, this lady had means. In her missive, she bitterly complained about the cashier who charged her the correct amount, and not more based on her faulty arithmetic. She wrote, “He certainly would have told me if I had more cans in my basket, instead of fewer cans.”

Rich, the headcheese, posted the letter on his back office bulletin board. It was his policy to answer every missive he received from aggrieved clientele (generally speaking a good policy). Even though he had gotten all the pertinent details from me, he was nonetheless going to respond to this lady’s letter.

What particularly irked me about this whole affair was that this evidently well-off woman with a premium view of Central Park was, in essence, attempting to get a cashier—whom she presumed was making minimum wage or close to it—chastised or, better yet, terminated. She was making trouble for the little guy. For what reason: charging her the right amount, and not more money based on her addition gaffe.

As the days turned into a week and then a couple, I noticed the letter still pinned to Rich’s bulletin board. I had had enough and yanked it off. It is in my archives somewhere now, and that Upper West Side denizen never did get a response, nor did she get that cashier fired. Now that was class warfare.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Thoughts of Barbicide

(Originally published 3/26/17)

I was in Greenwich Village yesterday morning—at brunch time as a matter of fact. In contrast with most of the month's temperatures, it was pleasantly warm—near sixty degrees—and the local hipsters were milling about in great numbers. Many of these men and women patiently waited their turns to dine in over-crowded and over-priced holes in the wall. From my perspective at least, all that waiting around spoils the dining experience. What the waiting inevitably portends is rarely pretty—dining in a sardine can with fellow sardines.

In my travels, I walked through Manhattan’s Meatpacking District, still home to an ever-decreasing number of meatpacking enterprises. Mostly, the area has morphed into a gentrified playground offering luxurious places to live—in converted slaughterhouses in many instances—and a bevy of posh restaurants and boutiques. I recall my father’s stories of watching hundreds upon hundreds of railroad freight cars carrying livestock along the Hudson River to the Meatpacking District. That’s one visual I’m happy I never witnessed. So, I can’t really say I miss the old Meatpacking District.

It’s just that New York City is fast becoming devoid of diversity and charm. And I’m not speaking of diverse peoples, but of diverse character and entrepreneurship. For example, I stumbled upon this chic, peculiarly named business called Acne Studio. I thought at first it might be the office of some dermatologist—a Dr. Zizmor epigone. After all, a dictionary definition of acne is: “The occurrence of inflamed or infected sebaceous glands in the skin; in particular, a condition characterized by red pimples on the face, prevalent chiefly among teenagers.” But no, Acne Studio wasn’t peddling $5.00 jars of Oxy face cleansing pads, but fashion instead like derby shoes with painted cap toes for $800 and $50/pair boxer briefs.  

Often in my Bronx to Manhattan adventures, I exit the train at the corner of 12th Street and Seventh Avenue. For many years, a neat row of mom-and-pop retailers greeted me on the northeast corner, including an independently owned pharmacy with a modest mortar and pestle neon sign. That same strip is now a Duane Reade chain drug store and a Subway sandwich franchise. This is the law of the jungle now.

Happily, small barbershops and locksmiths—to name a couple—are weathering the changes. Not too far from Acne Studio were two barbershops that I noticed. One was called Fellow Barbershop; the other took a page out of Shakespeare’s book and posed the immortal question: What’s in a name? The owners decided not to call it Best Barbershop or some such thing, but merely Barbershop. A barbershop by any other name would smell as sweet—or like Barbicide.

The great equalizer in this New York experience is a subway ride. It’s still a bargain and transports patrons of Acne Studio and Target alike. No special privileges here when—after pointing at the hanging zebra boards—subway conductors open their doors. It is then that we know for certain that while the stars may not be properly aligned, the subway cars most assuredly are.

(Photos two and three from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Horse Feathers

Recently, I learned that one of my favorite college professors passed away. He taught history, including a course called “Great Issues in American History.” It was one of only a handful of classes that I looked forward to attending during my four years of higher education. While the professor was modestly left leaning, he welcomed free and open discussion. That’s what men and women of the left encouraged once upon a time. They championed free speech and rigorous give-and-take. No one felt muzzled in his class or any other that I can remember. For what it’s worth: Microsoft Word editor underlined in blue “men and women” and suggested, “A gender neutral term would be more inclusive” like “people.”

American history—warts and all—was laid out to us in vivid living color without editorializing. Our professor, too, maintained a curious aura, like he somehow stepped out of the past. He was that authentic and right for the job. When the man sported a considerable beard, he could have effortlessly blended in among General Grant’s staff at Vicksburg.

In those bygone days—the early 1980s—college students weren’t easily offended, identity obsessed, and walking-and-talking victims, nor did they try historical figures in contemporary courts and find their lives and times irredeemable and unworthy of examination. I recall one classroom discussion revolving around the Civil War and slavery. I don’t remember the context of what inspired a Caucasian fellow to proclaim that one couldn’t compare the horrors of the Holocaust to what slaves endured in bondage. Not surprisingly, his viewpoint didn’t sit well with an African American peer who visibly seethed and offered a rebuttal. Our unflappable professor calmly listened to both sides and the class and life went on unimpeded. Nobody had a meltdown and made a beeline to a safe space in the Campus Ministry a flight below. The brother who ran that place always seemed strange and a bit scary to me. Nobody was reported. The school newspaper didn’t publish a story about the back and forth and demand heads on a platter and groveling apologies.

Another favorite professor of mine—also deceased as most of them sadly are—taught economics. I enjoyed her classes because she was at once provocative and approachable. She didn’t appreciate being labeled a “socialist” and preferred “humanist” instead. This prof was a bona fide feminist, too, who, I suspect, might be branded a “TERF” in the here and now.

I distinctly recollect taking an elective with her in my major. There were only a dozen students in the class. One day, the discussion involved women in the workplace. A male student from Nigeria interjected at some point, saying—in so many words—that a women’s place was in the home. The reaction from the professor and just about everybody else was prompt and dismissive but meted out good naturedly with no lingering hard feelings. Obviously, this chap came from a vastly different culture. He received, though, a well-earned earful from Americans in a quintessential bastion of free expression back then—the college campus. Nobody was triggered and that was the end of that.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

 

Spring-a-ling

When I was a boy in the Bronx during the 1960s and 1970s, there were “candy stores”—often more than one—on the main thoroughfares. Places that sold all kinds of candy—yes—but also newspapers, magazines, and fountain drinks like egg creams, malts, and milkshakes. Through the years, I purchased a fair share of confectionaries in them. The variety was incredible, and the price was right. My favorites varied from moment to moment and included—at one time or another—Banana Splits, Good & Fruity, Dots, Neccos, Starburst, and Jaw Breakers.

For a spell, I was hooked on Skittles. While I have long since kicked that habit, I thought of these multi-hued delights today when I read a news account of a bill under consideration in the California Assembly, which would outlaw—among multiple candies and food products—Skittles, Mike & Ike Hot Tamales, Nerds, and Double Bubble Twist Gum. The pols sponsoring the bill cite the “dangerous chemicals” used in their manufacturing, including Red Dye no. 3, titanium dioxide, and propyl paraben.

Despite having the imprimatur of the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), various venerable candies are on the firing line. Yes, I accept that the FDA’s track record in these matters is less than perfect. And I’ll readily concede that consuming the candies of my youth—in the quantities that I did—wasn’t particularly good for my teeth, nor a net plus in my overall health and wellness. The ingredients listed on the packaging spoke and continue to speak volumes. But I lived to tell.

Permit me now to go out on a limb here and say that eating Skittles, Sour Patch Kids, and Pez are unlikely to inspire a rash of premature deaths. Anyway, we take chances in life all the time. Roll the dice, pop up the Pez head, and go for it then. Remember: You only live once! I want the kids of today to enjoy them—like I once did—while they can. Recalling the candies of my bygone boyhood has been a nostalgic tour de force, for sure, but the notion of consuming them in 2023 is remarkably unappealing and, indeed, stomach churning.

Now, should the aforementioned bill see the light of day, I can just imagine the black market that will spring to life. Picture this: Dealers in California back alleys prying open their briefcases full of sugary and colorful contraband. What’ll you have? Got any Milk Duds in there?

A footnote here: In strolling down memory lane and revisiting so many of the candies of my past, I encountered several that I never liked, even when I sported a cast iron stomach. They include Choward’s Violet Mints, Fun Dip, Turkish Taffy, Mallo Cup, Raisinets, Bit-o-Honey, Mary Jane, Junior Mints, York Peppermint Patties, Mounds, Almond Joy, Red Hots, and Butterfingers. The candy dots stuck to paper were pretty gross, too.

Broccoli Insecurity

So many things in life have taken a sharp turn for the worse—politics, professional sports, and general civility for starters. I recently encountered a quote from a longtime restauranteur. He lamented the fact that nowadays all too many of his customers are impatient, rude, and even nasty. It appears that people aren’t just crude, loathsome, and inane behind the veil of anonymity on platforms like Twitter, TikTok, and Facebook. It’s spilling over into real life—the bright light of day—which was inevitable, I suppose.

Another thing that has gone south is broccoli. Once upon a time it was my favorite vegetable. In my youth, my paternal grandmother—a chef extraordinaire—prepared a dish that was other-worldly: broccoli and spaghetti. It always looked and tasted as expected—delicious. Without fail, the cooked broccoli sported an alluring light-green hue. The black pepper added to the repast tenaciously clung to the florets, which were smothered in aromatic garlic and olive oil. Reach for the slices of Italian bread to sop up the oily remains. Napkins—more than one—were required. I could have eaten Grandma’s broccoli and spaghetti every day back in the day. Pray tell, what happened to the broccoli?

Admittedly, try as I might, I could never duplicate my grandmother’s broccoli and spaghetti. Occasionally, I would taste a hint of what came before me and be pleased with my efforts. Now, it just doesn’t happen—ever. I add more and more garlic with each college try, but even that doesn't enhance what has truly become a tasteless vegetable. As a boy, I would choose as my birthday meal: liver, broccoli, and mashed potatoes. It was a peculiar request for a kid, I know, especially from one who was known to be quite finicky vis-à-vis eating habits. Today, save perhaps the mashed potatoes, I’d pass on that childhood meal.

I presume that broccoli is somehow grown differently in the here and now. The stalks appear thinner and a darker green than the ones with which my grandmother worked her magic. So, I must accept this broccoli insecurity of mine and move on to greener pastures. Nevertheless, I can’t help myself. Hoping for a miracle find one day—a needle in a haystack— I still buy the veggie on occasion.

A footnote here: I’ve noticed in the current media vernacular and beyond the phrase “food insecurity” has taken root. It’s used to describe folks who don’t have the financial wherewithal to sufficiently feed themselves and their families. It just seems like an odd term to describe what it is intended to describe. But these are odd times, aren't they?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Goodbye, Mr. Chips

(Originally published 5/21/16)

I recently purchased a few Banquet brand frozen turkey dinners at a local supermarket. “TV dinners” are not typically on my shopping list nowadays for a variety of reasons—the foremost being that they aren’t very good. Once upon a time my youthful palate appreciated their ultra-sodium contents—but no more. Still, they were on sale and the packaging underscored the fact that there was now “fifty percent more” turkey in them.

If nothing else, consuming these frozen dinners amounted to a stroll down Memory Lane. And, I will concede, they were curiously edible. However, if there was indeed double the turkey in the dinners, their predecessors must have been sorely lacking—unsatisfying for sparrows let alone for the human masses. Fifty percent more turkey notwithstanding, I could have effortlessly eaten the three I bought in one sitting. If there was a downside to TV dinners during my wide-eyed and insatiably hungry boyhood, it was, without question, the portions. Even Swanson’s “Hungry Man” versions were somehow never enough.

This frozen dinner experience nevertheless got me thinking about other grocery store products from my youth, some that still exist and others that are in the compost heap of history. I ate a lot of pizza in my younger days—and in a variety of forms, too, including an instant toaster version manufactured by Buitoni. Regrettably, they are no more, but I fondly recall their gooey, reddish-orange puree of cheese and tomato sauce interiors, which were invariably blistering hot and prone to burn the mouth. My “Whatever Became Of” Internet search on these peculiar pizzas from yesteryear led me far afield to past comfort foods like Borden’s “Ready to Drink” Frosted Shakes in their heavy aluminum cans. We added milk to them at our house. They were that thick. Sadly, the Frosted Shake has gone the way of the Buitoni toaster pizza.

And the death knell didn’t end there. Sometime around 1970, Kellogg’s introduced toaster pastries called Danish Go-Rounds. I distinctly remember the TV commercials for them. They featured a catchy jingle that went something like this: “A new kind of pastry, frosting, and tasty. New Kellogg’s…Danish Go-Rounds.” They were tasty all right, but disappeared while I was still eating them. I had no choice. It was back to Pop-Tarts.

This former fare retrospective of mine found me in the end in Fudgetown. These were my all-time favorite cookies from a company called Burry, which also made Girl Scout cookies back then, when they were actually good. I hadn’t thought of Fudgetown in a long time, but I see that they, too, are only a memory now, along with Burry’s other boxed cookies: Gaucho and Mr. Chips, with the mysterious silhouette of Mr. Chips on the box. They were quality cookies. And since I never got the chance when Burry discontinued the products, I’d like to finally say it—better late than never—“Goodbye, Mr. Chips.” 

The Ice Cream Man Cometh

In New York City and much of the northeast, residents like me are experiencing the winter that wasn’t and apparently won’t be. It’s been so mild and virtually snowless that the ice cream man, Mister Softee, is already making his appointed rounds. This is unheard of for this time of year, akin to the swallows of San Juan Capistrano returning on St. Lucy’s Day rather than St. Joseph’s Day. Rounds, by the way, that include the venerable Mister Softee jingle polluting the air. As a youth, I welcomed the ditty playing over and over and over on a repetitive loop—and why not? Now, however, it’s intrusive and maddening! With ample history on my side, I reasoned that I was safe in wintertime from this very grating sound of summer. To employ a favorite media tag: It is truly “historic.”

These are, in fact, times that try men’s souls on a whole host of fronts. For instance, the latest ignominy perpetuated on the written word: the bowdlerizing of children’s author Roald Dahl’s works. I never read any of his stuff as a boy, but the late author had and has a considerable following. Over three million copies of Dahl’s books have sold. His characters are peculiar and colorful: “fat,” “ugly,” and “crazy” for starters.

In Dahl’s original James and the Giant Peach, published in 1961, the Centipede character sings: “Aunt Sponge was terrifically fat…and tremendously flabby at that” and “Aunt Spiker was thin as a wire…and dry as a bone, only drier.” Here are the edits made sixty-two years later that the publisher, Puffin, says are “small and carefully considered”: “Aunt Sponge was a nasty old brute…and deserved to be squashed by the fruit” and “Aunt Spiker was much of the same…and deserves half of the blame.” That’s small and carefully considered!

In Dahl’s 1983 book “The Witches,” he writes at some point, “Even if she is working as a cashier in a supermarket or typing letters for a businessman…” This is changed in 2023 to “Even if she is working as a top scientist or running a business…” I believe young and old alike can ascertain how books from the past—some written eons ago—reflect their time and don’t require alterations to avoid offending someone somewhere in the here and now. By the way, what’s the issue with working as a cashier? Elite censors?

When I imagine who these censors are—predominantly young flunkies in publishing taking their marching orders from consultants—I cringe. This offended class—non-writers educated in the art of offense—willy nilly rewriting the books of a renowned and deceased author—with a large fan base that transcends generations—is at once out of line and nauseating. Sure, Dahl was a strange man and “not an angel” to quote Salman Rushdie, harsh critic of this farce. But Dahl—and Dahl alone—created the surreal world with the likes of Augustus Gloop, Matilda Wormwood,, and George Kranky inhabiting it. It’s not the job of present-day puerile blue-pencil pushers and wacky activists to obliterate it. Here’s an idea: Why not cultivate new writers instead? Folks who will envision characters who aren’t fat, ugly, and crazy, but non-binary, neurodiverse, and intersectional instead. The more the merrier! And while you’re at it: Fear not all that came before, it won’t bite you.  

I’ve dealt with many fine editors through the years. More than a few copyeditors, though. remained anonymous and I had no say at the changes made to my manuscript. I never got to pore over the final draft. Work-for-hire jobs. Favorite edit from Knack: Night Sky: I referred to the “near side of the Moon.” A mystery editor, who evidently didn’t know that there are—in the common parlance—a “near side” and “far side” of the Moon, changed “near side” to “near the side.” It’s not quite the same thing, is it?  

Boom Goes the Dynamints

(Originally published 1/29/15)

For many years, family excursions from the Bronx to Bangor, Pennsylvania—to visit my maternal grandparents—found all concerned on the serpentine Richmond Road, which zigzagged through sleepy, picturesque farmland with barns, silos full of corn, and—a personal favorite—algae-strewn ponds. This enticing visual was the last leg of our journey from uber-urban to serene rural, and I remember being especially captivated by one pond in particular. Sure, I liked the one with the white ducks in it and an abandoned yellow school bus colorfully filling in the backdrop. But the pond with the diving board alongside it had a special allure. I often wondered what it would be like to dive into that murky-looking drink with those ubiquitous dragonflies and mosquitoes hovering all around it in summertime. I wondered, too, how deep the thing was and how a person might extricate himself from its mysterious muck. My youthful flights of fancy imagined the pond’s floor as quicksand-like.

On this very same pastoral thoroughfare, at the intersection of the intriguingly named Ott’s Corner, was also a bona fide “general store”—the Richmond General Store to be precise—replete with a couple of gas pumps out front, a pay telephone, and a Coca-Cola soda cooler on its front porch. It was an ordinary dwelling—a house actually— that performed double duty as retail space. From our city perspective, this was Ike Godsey’s place on the big screen of life. My brothers and I perpetually pined to stop there, but my father—ever suffering from driver’s fatigue and the unquenchable desire to get to his destination—habitually ignored our pleas. 

Then one day on a return trip to the Bronx, Pa—for some inexplicable reason—relented. We at long last stopped at the general store and purchased—of all things—a couple of packs of Dynamints. They were Tic Tac candy rip-offs that were stocked at the time by the Richmond General Store. In the big picture, though, we got a whole lot more than a couple of packs of Dynamints. We entered the general store to jingling bells, which alerted the proprietor that potential customers were on the premises. From a back room, a very sweet, elderly woman in her nightgown emerged to transact with us and make change for our considerable purchase. Having at long last patronized a real country general store—one that we had had our eyes on for a long time—it was definitely a morning to remember.

Alas, this general store is no more. The last time we passed by it was a house—and just a house—again. The gas pumps, pay telephone, and soda cooler were mere memories. Locals, I suspect, no longer need a general store in the here and now. And Dynamints, too, haven’t stood the test of time, but I’m certainly glad we interrupted a kindly businesswoman’s morning coffee to buy a couple of packs of them all those years ago.

The Midwinter Recess Lives

(Originally published on 2/23/18)

While wandering around the neighborhood and snapping pictures this past week, I acknowledged the time of year. This inspired me to, later, check out the website of my high school alma mater. I wanted to see if the “Midwinter Recess” of my youth endured. For those of us who loathed the high school experience with a passion, this week off—even if it was technically past midwinter—was very welcome indeed. If this revered holiday did in fact endure, I suspected it would be the week—as always—of George Washington’s Birthday.

I am happy to report that the Midwinter Recess has stood the test of time, but not recognition of the Father of Our Country’s natal anniversary, which is now widely known as Presidents’ Day on calendars, in department store promotions, and—sadly—in the public consciousness. It’s the third Monday in February, a federal holiday, which theoretically honors Washington and his forty-plus predecessors, most of whom deserve no such fête.

Anyway, for those of us lucky enough to participate in this year’s Midwinter Recess in New York City, a couple of days therein felt more like late spring weather. The thermometer reached 78 degrees on February 21st, a record breaker not only for the day but for the entire month as well. It was no-jacket-required time, for sure, with many locals donning their summer shorts and footwear. Being overdressed while wearing a light windbreaker in February is downright unnatural. Sweating in lieu of shivering at this time of year is a strange feeling. I don’t much like the cold of winter anymore. April in February I can appreciate, but June in February just strikes an ill-sounding chord.

Plucked now from the recesses of my mind are recollections of past Midwinter Recesses, which were invariably cold and stark—but reassuringly so. It was a bona fide pleasure not to have to arise early on five consecutive frigid and still pretty dark winter morns. These were Mondays through Fridays where I didn't have to trudge the several blocks from my house to busy Broadway to await my school’s “special” bus, which shuttled students to the other side of the Bronx. Trust me, there was nothing special about those buses, which were leased from the city—driver and all—and typically packed like the proverbial sardines in a can. While smoking was prohibited on New York City transit even in the colorful, more libertine 1970s, the ban was rarely enforced on our twenty-minute voyages to and from high school. So what if a fair share of teens puffed away in the sardine cans, leaving those of us who didn’t partake in the poisonous pleasures with a serious second-hand smoke problem to contend with, not to mention beginning our school days short of breath and smelling like dirty chimneys—clothes, skin, and hair.

While I certainly wouldn’t want to relive those infamous bus rides, I wouldn’t mind replaying those Midwinter Recesses of yesterday. They were cold when it was supposed to be cold. And as long as school wasn’t in session, I kind of liked cold in those days.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Sunbeam Energy

(Originally published on 3/25/12)

Not too long ago, we entered a period known, in astronomical lingo, as “solar maximum.” That is, our lucky star is sending a surfeit of red-hot solar flares—some of them rather potent—into interplanetary space. On occasion, they reach the cozy confines of our planet’s upper atmosphere and the byproduct is a kaleidoscope of undulating reds, greens, yellows, and purples in the skies of aurora country near the Earth’s two magnetic poles. Of course, there are potential negative consequences to our very active sun’s behavior and all those cascading flares, but I’m thinking more about Sunbeam right now—Sunbeam Bread.

Recently, old family slides were made into pictures. Since slide shows were a thing of the past, these images had rarely been seen for decades. Our family slide taking occurred in the mid-1970s through the early 1980s—and then that was the end of that. In the slide mix were some visuals of visits to my maternal grandparents, who lived in a town called Bangor, on a street called Miller, in the Keystone state of Pennsylvania. For kids from the Bronx, visiting Bangor and Miller Street was akin to entering The Twilight Zone. It was another world altogether and—after Route 80 was completed—only an hour and a half drive due west from New York City.

I was taken with one particular, not-especially-clear slide from Bangor—on Miller Street during our bicentennial year—that featured a certain truck in the backdrop. Miller Street was a very steep hill, with my grandparents sandwiched somewhere in the middle of it, and on the block below them was a frequently parked Sunbeam Bread truck. My grandmother used the product all the time and, as I recall, Sunbeam was pretty tasty as bland sliced white breads went. But only now—all these years later—have I given this image its proper due.

Somebody on Miller Street obviously owned a Sunbeam Bread truck route, because the truck was usually there during the day. I suspect he delivered the bread in the wee hours of the morning to area stores, and was back on Miller Street by early afternoon. I believe Sunbeam Bread was available everywhere, including the Bronx, but I don’t ever remember having it at home, and so I always associate it with my grandmother, Bangor, Miller Street, and that mysterious blue and yellow truck parked on the hill. I’m happy to report, too, that Sunbeam Bread lives on in grocery stores everywhere.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Jimmy's Roller Skates

(Originally published on 1/25/13)

While editing for the umpteenth time a YA work of fiction of mine—and very possibly making it less readable than before—I momentarily contemplated adding a scene involving a roller-hockey game. Set in the Northwest Bronx neighborhood of Kingsbridge, 1978, I thought it might add further color to this youthful tale from what was—most definitely—a colorful snapshot in time.

Anyway, one thing led to another and I Googled “old roller skates,” or some such thing, and cast my eyes upon an image of an old pair of roller skates, the utilitarian metal kind that were, once upon a time, the rage. They sported leather straps that secured them to roller skaters’ feet. As I recall, the straps were sometimes spray-painted red, yellow, or black. The cheap paint jobs, though, invariably chipped away, revealing both the age of the roller skates and the amount of mileage on them. I would be remiss here if I didn't mention these vintage roller skates' keys—indispensable keys—that tightened adjustable clamps. Tightened them— flush at the soles of feet—to roller skaters’ footwear. They weren't one-size-fits-all, but more like one size fits several size shoes.

While these old-time roller skates were still around when I was a very young boy, more modern and stylish boot-like renditions were fast casting asunder these relics—keys and all—from the past. Nevertheless, when I spied a photo of these charming metallic dinosaurs with wheels, I remembered the only pair I ever owned. I didn’t do much roller skating in my youth. (While hockey on roller skates was popular on the area’s ample asphalt and concrete, it just wasn’t my thing.) Originally, my roller skates belonged to an older kid named Jimmy, who lived just around the block from me. When Jimmy outgrew them, his mother gave them to my mother to give to one of her boys, which turned out to be me. I was six or seven, and Jimmy might very well have been five, seven, or even ten years older than me, when the roller skates changed hands. Actually, I have no personal memories of Jimmy at all. I only recall that he was “mentally retarded,” which was the commonly used and accepted term back in the 1960s and 1970s. It wasn’t pejorative, although it sometimes became so depending on the circumstances. In fact, the term was then medically sanctioned, considered largely benign, and a vast improvement over prior callous monikers.

I remember I was hesitant to even put the roller skates on because they once belonged to Jimmy. I thought he had some sort of communicable disease, I guess. As I warily surveyed the raggedy, peeling yellow leather straps on this very old pair of roller skates, I figured I might enter the Twilight Zone, or some such thing, if I put them on—that I would become a “mentally retarded” person like Jimmy.

Funny, but while I recall Jimmy’s roller skates becoming my own for one brief shining moment in the late 1960s, I don’t—as I previously noted—ever remember encountering him, although I must have. I don't recall anybody saying anything negative about him to frighten me into avoiding his skates like the plague. That was just it—the long and short of it. Very few people back then spoke openly about people like Jimmy and what could be done to truly help the “mentally retarded.” We kids were thus left to fill in the blanks and imagine all sorts of things—like catching “mental retardation” from a pair of skates.

What's My Line?

(Originally published on 3/16/20, COVID-lockdown eve in New York City. Seems like only yesterday and a long time ago.)

What a difference a couple of weeks make. Just hours ago, I consumed my final meal—French toast with bacon—in a local diner. Along with every other eatery in New York City, the place will be shuttering its doors for dine-in customers for who knows how long. I’m told that the diner will remain open for take-out orders and—according to a waitress—throwback street service ala the old drive-in restaurants of the 1950s. Perhaps some of the employees will be on roller skates—or skateboards—tomorrow.

As of today, all city schools are closed—to at least April 20th. That’s a rather nice holiday. Were I of school age, I’d probably looking on the bright side of the coronavirus. But the key question is: How will this lost time be made up? Personally, I’d hate—as a trade-off—attending school in the summer.

On a whole host of fronts: Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I can’t help but feel for all the men and women impacted by these indefinite closures. So many people live from paycheck to paycheck. And I suspect a lot of these restaurants, bars, and other businesses—compelled to shut down—don’t have much of a reserve to sustain them through weeks and months of cashlessness. The rents alone are astronomical. 

What's my line? I was in a crowded marketplace this afternoon. Come on, folks: Let's knock off the hoarding!  It's no wonder I can't get "The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street" out of my mind.

One day soon: Things will start looking up again...

And that coffee cup will be filled and refilled.

Portents of things to come: I passed by this diner yesterday at the Sunday brunch hour. Just a smattering of patrons in a place typically crammed with customers.

When life gives you the coronavirus, get on the Wendy's drive-thru line. Some things transcend all.

Get it while you can.

And to think that I just got accustomed to the fist bump and now that's unacceptable.

What's a ten-mile walk before work...

This establishment beat the city fathers and mothers to the punch and closed days before the official ban. It's always good to remain optimistic that "things will get better."

Here's another eatery that took the crisis into its own hands. 

Times Square was pretty quiet this weekend. The Naked Cowboy was nowhere to be seen. Looking rather forlorn with few tourists to fleece, I did, however, spy this tall, creepy-looking guy dressed as Lady Liberty—whom I've seen before—aimlessly meandering No Man's Land. 

Everyone's gone to the moon...

It's the little people who will feel the pinch of the coming days and weeks.

All's quiet on West Street and One World Trade Center.

The street food vendors can still ply their trade. But what's the point when there are no customers?

A St. Patrick's Day without a parade and open bars. A couple of weeks ago, nobody could have imagined it.

Who was that masked man?

Keep calm and dance on! Why not?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Practicum of Nightmares

Oh, my, it’s 2023! Seems like only yesterday that it was 1983. Tom Seaver was reacquired by the New York Mets that year—returning to the town and the team where he belonged and should have played his entire career. Gearing up for the new baseball season that winter, it was exciting to imagine my boyhood hero on the mound at Shea Stadium again and finishing his illustrious career in a Mets’ uniform. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Seaver pitched for the 1983 Mets all right—and reasonably well for a thirty-eight-year-old coming off an injury-plagued year—and then was gone with the wind once more, courtesy of a front office faux pas of epic proportions. Wow, that was forty years ago and—may I just say—things ain’t what they used to be.

Tom Seaver has passed away. Shea Stadium is a memory. And baseball players are signing contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Aaron Judge put his John Hancock on a nine-year deal with the Yankees worth $360 million. When he broke Roger Maris’s single season home run record last year, a fan caught the ball. Some people opined that this man should have given the ball to Judge. He would, after all, be showered with largesse for this unselfish act: a couple of signed bats and balls and a fifty-dollar gift certificate to Ikea for starters. But the fan in question was not about to pass up an even greater windfall. Reports are that the guy turned down $3 million dollars for the record-breaking orb, putting it up for auction instead. It sold for half that figure! Just sayin’: I would have jumped at the $3 million figure—taken the money and run, as it were. But let’s face it, fans pay a premium now to watch sports, whether at the ballpark or via cable TV and such. Why couldn’t Judge—in this instance—offer to buy the ball for a fair sum? I realize that it might be something of a hardship to get by on $357 million over the next nine years, but we all make sacrifices at one time or another.

In 1983, I was attending college. Speaking of which, the University of Southern California has recently cast asunder the word “field,” because of—drum roll please— “racist connotations.” The word will be replaced by “practicum.” Yes, hearing the phrase “field trip” could very well trigger a student and turn him or her or zir into a blithering bowl of Jell-O in search of a safe space.

Anyway, this is the world of 2023. Joe Biden has even joined the fraternity of presidents with classified documents in places they shouldn’t be, including alongside his Corvette in his locked garage in Wilmington, Delaware. You can’t make this stuff up. Seems to me that this is further evidence that our last two presidents were unfit for their jobs. It would be nice to think that we will get past this perpetual insanity on too many fronts to count. I wonder what the country and world will be like in 2063? Looking on the bright side, I won’t be around to find out.